


In Flames

by PrittlePrince



Category: SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Also so brave, Drabble, M/M, Mature rating only for future potential rating - there is (currently) no smut, Royalty AU, Taemin is a very good prince, fated AU, mark lee is a little rascal, princes au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22473544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrittlePrince/pseuds/PrittlePrince
Summary: There’s royalty in his blood, Taemin thinks. There must be.
Relationships: Mark Lee (NCT)/Lee Taemin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	In Flames

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a wee drabble I wrote for an anon prompt on cc!
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/prittleceebs)
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/prittleceebs)
> 
> Edited and adapted from [this](https://twitter.com/prittleceebs/status/1218752972777304065) twitter thread I posted recently ' 3 '

There’s royalty in his blood, Taemin thinks. There must be.

One doesn’t just come naturally to moving like that, do they?

Twisting and turning around the throng of people in the market- scarf pulled up around his face as the man moves from stall to stall. His attempts to hide his face and body are so painfully unsubtle, Taemin assumes he must be a man of great prominence but regrettably, very little wit. Either that or a foreign dignitary looking for a few blessed hours where he may go unrecognized.

Taemin trails a decent distance away, watching the man treat the villagers with affection. Heartfelt smiles and gentle conversation. He overpays and carries his purchases in his sleeve. It’s unnatural, Ill-practiced.

Perhaps, Taemin thinks, their first time.

Taemin knows what it looks like, this flirtation with anonymity. He knows because he’s doing it now, just like he’s successfully done for years. Sneaking out of the castle Sunday mornings just to buy fruit from the market vendors and watch the village children play in the square.

Somehow after all these years it takes until this very day to meet this other man. Knowing he must be a visitor within their city walls, Taemin wonders back to the guests he’s entertained over the past few days in his court. None match this man’s gait. The easy smile that curls on his face.

It’s inexplicable, the way he prances through the street with his gleaming eyes and sun-kissed cheeks, dazzling in his charm even as Taemin notes the visible ring grooves on his hands. They are bare now, when perhaps they’re used to dripping in jewels.

It could be a trick of the eye. A coincidence. But Taemin is too observant for all that. He must discover who the man is. This is his kingdom, after all. Peculiar behaviour should be investigated, for the safety of the villagers.

He could dispatch his guards as a tail, Taemin thinks, but he won’t deny himself this small thrill. There’s little joy to be found in court life. In the years since Taemin has come of age it’s been politics and preparing for war. Mobilizing soldiers at their borders as discussions become tense with their neighbouring country.

He’s bound with a sense of duty and responsibility, and he’ll protect his people with his life. Even so, he can’t help mourn the lost years of innocence where he could indulge moments like this. Satisfy every curiosity.

He tucks his chin into his kerchief and tilts his face downwards as he edges closer to the stranger, losing himself in the crowd of people moving from stall to stall.

The man’s cloak is a deep cerulean, and it’s easy to follow. Though dirt and dust coat it’s hem, the craftwork of the embroidery is of unmistakably high quality. 

He isn’t trying very hard, Taemin muses, as he mirrors the man and pauses at a stall several yards back. He knows he blends in easily because he’d learned quickly what _not_ to wear. Today he dons a simple olive-green cotton kurta, angled with a unremarkable hem from one hip to the opposite thigh, devoid of all jewelry or silk. 

He doesn’t stand out, not with the simple gray scarf covering his hair and his mouth and his jaw. Only his eyes and his hands and, daringly, his ankles are exposed. Any more and he risks being found out by the townsfolk.

To his right, a vendor leans over his stall and beckons Taemin closer. He uses the opportunity to bend his ear as the elderly man whispers to him, some deal on a jar of fresh local honey. Taemin does, after all, usually buy a small jar for himself nearly every week. In this way, he allows himself to be recognized. Distracted, he tells the old man that no, this week he’ll go without. All the while his eyes are trained on the sinuous twist of the visitor’s hips as he shimmies past two market-goers and continues on down the street.

The honey vendor looks annoyed to be ignored but Taemin waves at him softly as he follows his eyes, promising to buy twice as much honey as normal next week. It’s like he’s pulled by a string and Taemin slips back into the crowd, peering around stranger’s heads as he starts to lag behind, slowly losing sigh of the glittering blue cloak amongst the muted earth tones of the villager’s local garb. 

A woman steps in front of him, and he nearly trips in the street, bumping into the cart of birdcages and parrots she’s pulling behind her. Their cawing, as they’re disturbed, is a sudden raucous amongst an otherwise uninteresting sunday morning. 

With a whispered apology to the woman, Taemin slips into a crowd of people entering an alleyway. His heart thunders as he distances himself from the commotion he’s caused in the street.

The alleyway splits and narrows, leading away from the market and Taemin decides it’s probably best not to risk himself further, splitting away from the crowd and stepping down into a narrow passageway. It’s downwards path is an endless, winding trail of tapered, worn steps.

He turns a corner- confident from years of ambling around his own city, hidden in the shadows- and runs face-long into a cerulean blue cashmere waistcoat. It’s smooth and cool against his face in the seconds he allows himself to make note before he rights himself.

“It’s Mark, by the way.”

Taemin freezes, eyes widening as he’s gripped tight with a hand around his bicep. There's the bright flash of a steel dagger pressed to his abdomen and flattens himself against the stone wall with a gasp.

He doesn’t bother speaking- it doesn’t seem clever with the way the dagger whispers along the rough cotton of his shirt. He stares down at the man who presses him to the wall, eyes narrowed with cautious interest. 

Framed by the rich blue silk of his scarf, the man’s face is slender and ever-so-slightly freckled. His eyebrows are drawn but there’s a playfulness, a mirth in his gaze. His eyes settle somewhere over Taemin’s left shoulder.

“You know...” the man starts, when Taemin doesn’t respond. “Anyone worth half their salt would notice when they’re being followed.” His thumb runs a restless line over the fabric covering Taemin’s arm.

“You think these... _rags_... disguise who you are? What you can’t hide, darling, is your complexion-“ and the man sheathes his dagger and raises his hand. Taemin doesn’t flinch when fingers trail over his exposed cheekbone.

“-devoid of blemishes.” 

Taemin is patient as Mark traces his jaw, expression considering.

“Who are you?” He finally utters, more curious than frightened. “Who are you- to pull a knife on me?”

Mark doesn’t back up, but instead presses closer and Taemin swallows and steadies his gaze when Mark gets in his face.

“Too good for a knife, are you?”

Taemin only frowns back at him, unimpressed.

“Ought you not be more careful than this, young prince? Are you so blind to the political temperature?” 

He isn’t- but he realizes that doesn’t mean much if this man really is an assassin, and he’s been caught in the shadows of his own city without his guard. They’ll find him in a pool of his own blood and the upcoming war won’t even begin. They’ll have lost.

There’s a twinge of nerves that grips his chest when he thinks about how poorly he might profiled the stranger. The risk he didn’t see. He seems soft and endearing and innocent, but Mark’s current devilish grin suggest otherwise. Even so, Taemin can’t stop looking at him. Whether it’s his captivating grin or fear of his life, it’s hard to say.

Taemin is too proud to plead for his life which is just as well because Mark really is too pretty to be a killer.

“You’re not so subtle yourself.” There’s no venom in it. His gaze is even, which seems to annoy Mark.

“Perhaps I’m not trying to be,” he responds, curt.

“Well I’d certainly hope not.”

When Mark raises his hand a second time, it’s to run along where the scarf is wrapped around Taemin’s face and his hair. A fingertip slips just under the fabric, and the prince’s eyebrows rise. Brave.

“I’m visiting.” Mark murmurs, considering, before tugging lightly until the shawl floats free. His gaze drops to take in the straight line of Taemin’s mouth. 

“I’d guessed as much,” With a tilt of his head, Taemin stares back, totally absorbed. 

He doesn’t know what it is that compels him to allow this to continue. With a snap of his fingers, he could have this man dragged away to a dirty cell. For threatening the prince, for behaving so disrespectfully.

“To be honest...” Mark whispers, and his gaze is heavy, travelling up Taemin’s face. “I just wanted to have a little fun. Before...” his eyes drift somewhere over Taemin’s shoulder again and Taemin thinks this is his moment. To end whatever position they’re perilously tumbling towards or to take action to remove this risk from his life.

“Before what?” He asks, instead. He’s drawn like a magnet to Mark’s weather-worn clothes and pierced ears and sun-freckled skin. The soft arch of his eyebrows. 

“The war, of course. It’s coming. For both of us.”

_For both of us_. It rattles around in Taemin’s mind like a memory he can’t place.

_Both of us_.

Something catches in his throat.

“Mark Lee,” Taemin breathes, and suddenly he’s looking at the stranger a little differently. 

While he’s never met him, he knows him well. 

Pouting, Mark tugs the scarf entirely from Taemin’s shoulders and he feels exposed, nude.

“I didn’t expect the prince to still have such soft features,” Mark continues, running a hand freely over Taemin’s collarbone. Taemin watches him with wide eyes.

“I didn’t expect to see the son of my father’s enemy here to kill me so early on a Sunday morning.” He utters, greedily watching every shift in expression on Mark’s face.

“It is a shame…” he continues. “I thought one day we would perhaps meet on the battlefield. It’s a genuine surprise, to meet you this way.” He catches Mark’s wrist between them and his grip is like a vice. Mark winces and gasps, trying to pull away but Taemin holds him fast.

“The enemy of your father...” Mark hisses, twisting. “Am I not _your_ enemy?” 

Taemin’s grip tightens and Mark stills, eyes shooting daggers into the young prince who only responds with an amused smile.

“How am I to know? All I know is that you are here, and your intentions don’t appear to be cordial.” 

Mark twists again in his grip, but Taemin is stronger than Mark had expected. He doesn’t even break a sweat. 

“How do you know what my intentions are?” Mark asks, and Taemin’s eyes drop to the sheathed dagger that sways at Mark’s waist. Mark rolls his eyes.

“How else was I to get you alone?”

Taemin raises an eyebrow at that.

“If you truly believe there is anything acceptable about how you’ve handled this, you really must be a fool.”

“You’re not what I expected,” Mark mutters, suddenly morose. He doesn’t fight Taemin’s grip anymore, so he is released. 

Taemin can’t help his curiosity, which hasn’t faded from the moment he first caught a glimpse of Mark’s blinding smile on the streets earlier that morning.

“What did you expect?”

“For you to be more fun.” The tone is petulant. Why had Taemin continued to indulge him like this?

“You didn’t do your research,” he intones, and slips out from between Mark and the wall. “I’m not known for being fun.”

“What am I to do?” Mark murmurs, pulling his hood closer around his face. Taemin brushes invisible dust from his own shoulder and smooths his clothes from where Mark had twisted the cotton in his fist.

“Get arrested?” Taemin suggests and Mark actually _laughs_. It’s a soft, tinkling thing. Taemin hears an edge of weariness in his voice.

“What happened?” The prince continues. It’s clear Mark is no threat. If he came here to kill his enemy, he’s let several opportunities come and go without making any move. 

“I ran,” Mark answers simply. The prince tilts his head to show Mark he is listening well.

“Sold my jewelry for bread and milk on the road,” he says, and Taemin watches where Mark massages the empty lines on his fingers where his rings should be. Mark self-consciously raises a hand and fingers at a single earring still dangling from one ear. Perhaps all he has left. Enough for a place to sleep and a week’s worth of food.

“I was robbed of my family sword and my best shoes.” Taemin eyes the way Mark’s hand settles protectively over the small dagger at his hip. Perhaps it’s all he has, now.

“And I came all this way to see you. I risked it all.” Where there’d once been amusement, now there’s a pinched kind of anguish on Mark’s pretty face. As royalty, he usually wouldn’t have seen the direct sunlight enough to earn his freckles. His hands would be smooth and cool but when he’d pressed his fingertips to Taemin’s cheek they had been rough and warm. His lips are dry and chapped.

“Why?” Taemin asks, truly confused. The man before him is not a man here to kill. He’s a man here in defiance of his king.

“When I was but a child, I saw you.” Mark steps away, then, and there’s the whisper of his feet on the stone below as he sits down on a step in the shaded stairwell. 

He pushes his hood back from his head, and his hair is dark and curling around his ears. The sun has bleached his hair a soft brown in places and it matches the barely visible freckles on his neck.

“You were regal, even then.” 

Taemin’s face remains stoic, but he steps closer, leaning against the wall. He holds his scarf in his hand, wondering if he should cover his face once more. Any of the villagers would recognize him were they to pass by this way.

Somehow, Mark’s boldness in removing his own mask of anonymity makes Taemin feel brave. He sits on the stairs, a couple feet away.

“Our fathers met to discuss their combined efforts against a threatening neighbour. They were friends, then. You must remember it.”

Taemin does. The rich warm tones of Mark’s father’s robes as he and his own father had walked together down the long hallways of the castle. Companionable. Close.

“You once said- _All are equal in our land._ ”

Taemin doesn’t remember the exact moment, but he knows the phrase well.

Mark turns his head and his gaze is piercing. Taemin can see the countless sleepless nights and the toll Mark’s travel has taken.

“It’s a little disappointing, now, to realize you don’t recognize me. But... I was only a child. Still... I could never forget you.”

Taemin colours at that, can’t fight it with the way Mark looks at him. Hopeful. Sad.

“So when my own father wouldn’t accept who I was...” Mark trails off. Distantly, Taemin is aware of how he aches for him. Wishes him to know acceptance.

“You came to where you would be equal.” Taemin finishes. Mark swallows and nods, and Taemin can see he’s already braced himself for rejection. Despite his forwardness earlier, he is scared. 

“So you see,” Mark says. “I did not come here to kill you.” He smiles, but it’s more down to earth than the goofy smile Taemin had seen earlier.

“Yes, I see that now. And yet... you did _lure_ me into this alleyway. And also...” Taemin stands, brushing dust from his pants. “You called me boring.”

“I thought we would fight,” Mark whines. “But you’re much too calm.”

“Did you want to fight?” Taemin asks. “Or are you just bored?”

Mark sighs and rolls his eyes. He stands as well and mirrors Taemin in brushing what dirt he can from the rich blue of his robes. Taemin does remember him, a little. They’re foggy memories, and in them Mark is always dressed in golds and reds. It’s unusual to see the azure of the cloak next to the warm tone of his skin.

“It’s my nature,” Mark says, re-adjusting the dagger at his waist.

“So you’re a refugee,” Taemin summarizes. It’s a sobering sentence. Mark lets out a breath and nods. 

Taemin lifts the scarf and ties it back around his shoulders and head.

“I’m sure the prince would _never_ deny a refugee...” Taemin starts, beginning his descent down the stairs. 

When Mark doesn’t immediately follow he pauses and glances over his shoulder. Mark stares back at him and there’s something in his face, a heartened light in his eyes.

With a nod, he skips down the steps and falls into stride with Taemin. Two princes, light of foot in the shadows of the city. One, subtle and neutral and calm and the other, light and bright and unable to hide his grin. He’s like the sun, Taemin thinks.

“Lift your hood,” he says, as they walk. “Hide your face.”

Mark’s joy lessens a little but is replaced with determination. He nods, and brings the hood close around his face, casting his gaze down.

“It’s hard not to look at you,” Taemin utters, by way of explanation. As though that might distract from the very real, practical needs for anonymity and safety. 

He feels Mark’s gaze intent and warm to his right, but ignores it in favour of leading the way. He misses Mark’s soft, hopeful smile, and the warmth that lights his cheeks.

“I know the feeling,” Mark whispers, and falls into silence as his prince spirits him away, step by step into the depths of the town.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you'll drop me a line on cc or twt if you have headcanons for this little drabble and want to see more (like smut haha) or want to send a prompt!
> 
> Thank you for your support and feedback : )
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/prittleceebs)
> 
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/prittleceebs)
> 
> <3


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